


Reflections of You

by okapi



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Hand Jobs, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Mirror Sex, Mirrors, Oral Sex, POV Sherlock Holmes, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sherlock Kink Meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-29
Updated: 2017-11-29
Packaged: 2019-02-08 05:55:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12858192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: Sherlock likes mirrors. Johnlock. PWP.Fill for #233 of the Sherlock Kink Meme about katoptronophilia.





	Reflections of You

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [Small_Hobbit](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Small_Hobbit/pseuds/Small_Hobbit) for the beta.

“That was one blowjob, Sherlock. Six months ago. Why am I just hearing this now, you utter tit?”

The hand in Sherlock’s hair tightened, but the tender, eager, slightly-chapped-lipped kisses did not cease.

“We’ve had sex quite a few times since,” murmured John against Sherlock’s cheek. Then he pulled back.

The flicker of a half-smile did nothing to soften the sharp inquiry in his eyes.

Sherlock shrugged, then tilted his head, the better to run his tongue across a spot on the right side of John’s neck. It was a move that, on two previous occasions, had resulted in John’s knees buckling in much the manner of a swooning protagonist of a Mills & Boon novel. At the moment, John was in Sherlock’s lap, his legs stretched out along the sofa, so any effect wouldn’t be quite so striking, or disabling, but it just might derail a conversation that Sherlock did not want to have.

“Tell me, Sherlock,” said John, pulling away once more and giving Sherlock’s scalp a painful tug. “I thought you were simply lazy, well, as lazy about home furnishing as you are about every other domestic activity.”

“I _am_ lazy about home furnishing and every other domestic activity,” insisted Sherlock.

“And if I hadn’t got fed up with it,” said John, ignoring Sherlock and twisting to glance at the cordless drill lying on the coffee table. “And said, ‘Sherlock, it’s been more than a year. New clients still ask if we just moved in because that bloody mirror is still on the floor instead of over the mantelpiece,’ and attempted to do something about it, you would’ve never said a word.”      

Sherlock averted his gaze. “It wasn’t of any importance,” he muttered under his breath. “Hang the bloody thing if it matters so much!” He made to push John off his lap and rise from the sofa, but John didn’t budge.

“You liked it. Sex in front of the mirror,” said John.

“What of it?”

Sherlock winced at his own voice, jaguar-in-a-cello reduced to a common alley cat hiss.

“I don’t understand, Sherlock. If memory serves, that’s the only time we’ve had any kind of sex here. You’ve never once tried to manipulate the situation.”

“Great. You’re surprised I _haven’t_ manipulated you,” said Sherlock, still trying, and failing, to flee the scene.

“Just tell me what in the bloody hell it’s all about! Or am I too stupid to understand?”

Finally, Sherlock gave up.

“I’m a showoff, John. A selfish prick. An ego maniac. The kind who stares at himself long enough to turn into a drooping flower.”

“Narcissist, yeah, I got that.”

“Naturally, I’d want to have mirrors about while I fucked my boyfriend!” Sherlock stumbled over the word, but not as badly as he’d anticipated. “Americans psychos do it. Why not British ones?”

“You’ve seen _American Psycho_?”

“The film figures very prominently in a cursory Google search of katoptronophilia, John. Do your research.”

John hummed. “Someone told me just yesterday that secondary research is for tossers.” Then he shifted abruptly. He straddled Sherlock, releasing Sherlock’s hair and grabbing the lower hem of his own jumper. He drew the jumper up and off, then tossed it to the floor.

Sherlock couldn’t resist.

Just one glance.

The mirror remained where John had abandoned it when the row had ensued, upright, propped against John’s armchair. The coffee table obscured a swathe of John, but the image in the looking glass still took Sherlock’s breath away.

As the misshapen, oatmeal-coloured wooly jumper was peeled off and discarded, John’s skin, his muscles, the dimples and divots of his spine came into view.

God, he was gorgeous.

Sherlock could scarcely believe his good fortune. He was allowed, nay, he was readily encouraged to touch this creature.

He touched John, and the experience was wondrous.

Sherlock’s eyes saw what his hands felt as he caressed John’s back. And his hands felt what his eyes saw, and somehow in Sherlock’s brain, it was more than the sum of its parts.

More John.

John’s eyes were on Sherlock, but Sherlock didn’t mind. He was getting hard just looking.

“You’re not looking at you, are you, Sherlock?”

Sherlock shook his head and wrenched his gaze from the mirror. His lips and teeth found, and worried, that spot on the right side of John’s neck.

“It’s like another set of eyes. I observe, John. It’s what I do. This is a way of observing more. More of you.”

The hand was in Sherlock’s hair, yanking his head back.

“I want to know when you like something this much,” said John, his voice like steel. “I may like it, I may not, but I want to know.” Then his face and tone softened. “One rule: never on the ceiling, yeah?”

A smile broke of its own volition across Sherlock’s face.

“No matter how strong the wires are, I am always going to worry they’ll snap and the bloody thing will squash us. Bad luck, that. Seven years, then some,” said John, with a wink.

Sherlock laughed, then nodded. “Agreed.”

John kissed Sherlock’s lips, then said, “I remember that blowjob. I remember afterwards you carried me to your bedroom and— _fuck, Sherlock_.” John kissed Sherlock’s neck. “We’ve had a lot of good sex, but that was great sex. So, yeah, deck us out like a fun house. I’m in. Or do you want to start now?”

“Both.”

* * *

As John slid the coffee table aside and found lube, Sherlock stood, stripped from the waist down, and resettled in the centre of the sofa. He glanced at the mirror and, thinking he looked a bit ridiculous in his shirt alone, began to work at the buttons.

Once John settled between Sherlock’s legs, however, all Sherlock’s thoughts of his own aspect fled.

“God, you’re gorgeous,” he breathed, looking from John to John’s reflection, then back to John.

John hummed and nuzzled Sherlock’s crotch, his stiffening cock, his heavy bollocks, even the creases of his thighs. Then John slowed his ministrations and bent forward until his forehead was pressed against Sherlock’s leg. He dropped his hands to the front of his own jeans.

“I will, of course, reciprocate,” said Sherlock hastily. There was a flash of red cotton, all the more delightful for being unexpected.

“Damn right,” said John. “And then some. But things might get a bit too tight for comfort. There. Much better.”

John twisted so that his tongue tickled the wiry-haired base of Sherlock’s cock. Then he licked swiftly up the underside of Sherlock’s shaft and swallowed his cockhead.

At the shock of pleasure, Sherlock’s instinct was to close his eyes, but he dared not for there, in the mirror, was John’s head, John’s neck, his arms, his shoulders, his back. There was the waistband of John’s gaping jeans and his jeans-clad arse, his bare soles and his toes.

Sherlock didn’t want to miss a thing.

The sight and feel of John servicing him, however, and the thoroughly and somehow exponentially pornographic nature of the act as reflected in the mirror served to snap at least one of his long-held inhibitions.

“Fuck!” he cried, releasing the expletive in a puff of air and spittle. He threw his head back against the sofa and slumped, edging his lower body further off the sofa.

With lips still stretched around Sherlock’s cock, John chuckled, a wicked rumble of satisfaction that sent vibrations, tendrils of telegraphed desire, crisscrossing Sherlock’s body.

Sherlock shuddered and watched himself shudder.

But not for long.

As John bobbed and sucked, Sherlock smoothed his hands over John’s hair and down his neck, then spread his fingers along the ridges of John’s shoulders, as far as his reach permitted.

Sherlock sighed. To observe what he felt and feel what he observed, namely, John’s strength and his beauty.

Was there anything better? An old-fashioned locked-room murder was a close second.

Suddenly, John pulled off and sat back on his heels. He wiped his mouth and chin with the back of his hand. It was a simple act. Nevertheless, Sherlock moaned.

“Posh boy,” growled John, his dark eyes shining like polished stone. “There’s that filthy mouth. Finally. Like to see your bit of rough make a mess of himself?”

Sherlock didn’t understand the words, but the tone was pure sex. Whatever John was asking, he was quite certain the answer was—

“Yes,” Sherlock whimpered and spread his legs wider.

John laughed again and quickly slicked both hands with lube. He wrapped his left hand around the base of Sherlock’s cock then began stroking Sherlock’s shaft with his right hand.

Sherlock was mermerised by John’s arm.

His shoulder.

Muscles. Flexing. Relaxing.

John stroked him faster.

Sherlock’s lust mounted.

He was close.

Faster.

Clo—

“Sorry.”

Sherlock lurched and emitted a noise, half-panic, half-protest as John jumped to his feet and peeled off his jeans. Sherlock’s consternation evaporated, however, at the sight of the red pants with the damp-stained front. He looked at John, who smirked, then carefully balanced his knees on Sherlock’s thighs and said,

“Give us a kiss.”

Sherlock would have kissed every inch of John’s body thrice over.

With an exaggerated pucker, he pressed his lips to the red wet-cotton bulge. Then he leaned to the side and sank his hands beneath the waistband of John’s pants.

As Sherlock ogled his own kneading of John’s buttocks in the mirror, John’s hands found Sherlock’s head, gripping him, once more, by the follicles.

Sherlock’s body tensed. He licked clumsily at the right side of John’s pants, one eye on the mirror, one eye blocked by John’s body. His own fingers peeked out from the leg bands of John’s pants.

John’s hard muscles, his warm flesh, his soft skin filled Sherlock’s massaging palms. And John’s cock was right there, at Sherlock’s mouth, ripe for the feasting. Frantic, Sherlock tongued and attempted to suckle the shaft through the red fabric.

John released Sherlock’s head and carefully eased the front of the waistband down. The back of the pants came down, too, and stopped.

The crack of John’s arse. The bunched red cotton. The skin.

The reflection conjured sensation; the sight, touch, smell, sound, taste, was seared in Sherlock’s mind. It burned and branded and shook him.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” growled John.

John fell to the floor and took Sherlock’s cock in his mouth.

“FUCK!”

* * *

John wiped his mouth again and rose. He settled himself in Sherlock’s lap, back to Sherlock’s chest, facing the mirror. Now naked, he was stroking his cock with one hand. The other arm was stretched up and back, his hand finding its favourite resting place in Sherlock’s hair.

“What do you want, Sherlock?”

“What I want has just happened, John.”

The slurred response brought a tug at Sherlock’s hair, but a gentle one by John’s standards.

“No. This was improvisation. When you plan the mirror fantasy in that gorgeous brain of yours, what happens?”

“John.”

“How many mirrors?” asked John sharply.

“Three,” replied Sherlock without hesitation.

“Where are we?”

“There.” Sherlock eyed the rug, then the mirror and John’s thick, utterly stroke-able cock.

“What are we doing?” asked John.

“You’re…” Sherlock pressed his lips to the side of John’s neck. “…taking me.”

John half-grinned. “You’re going to let me mount you? Sink this thick cock into your tight hole? Christ.”

“As long as I can watch.”

John laughed. Sherlock laughed. And John came with a snort and a ‘pervy bastard.’

* * *

John kissed Sherlock, hard and long, so hard and so long, in fact, that when the kiss finally broke, Sherlock felt a bit dizzy.

John pulled back and licked his lips. He watched Sherlock for a few moments, then asked,

“Got your breath back?”

Sherlock leaned up, pressed a quick chaste kiss to John’s lips, and replied,

“Ready when you are.”

Sherlock was, indeed, ready.

He’d refused John’s offer to prep him, and John, always sensitive to what was up for negotiation and what wasn’t, hadn’t asked twice.

And readying the sitting room was not as tedious as Sherlock had anticipated. He’d found a trio of serviceable mirrors in Mrs. Hudson’s lumber room amidst bits of old furniture, suitcases, and other dusty bric-a-brac.  


“Tonight.” John had declared when he’d found Sherlock polishing the smallest of the three mirrors. “The sight of you doing a spot of housework is making me hard already, and, hey, if these three are our ‘fun mirrors,’ then I can go ahead and hang the one that supposed to be about the mantelpiece, yeah?”

“After a trial run?” proposed Sherlock.

John nodded. “Fair enough.” Then he moved behind Sherlock, nuzzled the nape of Sherlock’s neck and kissed Sherlock’s cheek, before continuing on to the kitchen, whistling a jaunty tune.

* * *

Tonight was now. The mirrors were in place, and soon Sherlock’s fantasy would be realised.

Sherlock shrugged out of his dressing gown and threw it over the back of his armchair, then he settled himself on hands and knees on the soft, dark-coloured blanket that had been rolled out like a rug in the centre of the room.

The first of the three mirrors stood directly in front of Sherlock. It was a tall mirror, one that might have been found on the back of a wardrobe door.

When Sherlock lifted he head, he could see his own face, shoulders, and arms as well as John, who was still standing and now clad in only a pair of tight pants, a royal blue twin to the red pair he’d worn two days ago.

“You’re going to make a boy blush,” teased John. “With all that staring.”

“Doubtful,” countered Sherlock. “But welcome, and charming, if true.”

John rubbed the front of his pants with one hand. “You want this cock, Sherlock?”

Sherlock lifted his head slightly, keeping his eyes on John’s, which were reflected in the mirror.

“So much so that I am not deterred in the least by your rhetorical question. Yes, John. I would very much like you to insert your well-lubricated, erect penis into my anus and thrust until you ejaculate.”

John smirked. “Well, when you put it like _that_.”

“Mount me. Take me. But let me watch.”

John grinned. “Fuck, yeah.” Then he fell forward and crawled atop Sherlock.

Sherlock groaned, turned his head, and groaned again.

The second mirror was carefully propped against John’s armchair. A larger version of the one to hang above the mantelpiece; it was resting on one of its longer sides and had been placed quite purposefully to the left of them. Left because of John’s scar.

“John.”

John turned his head, too, but only briefly. He kissed Sherlock’s neck.

“I quite like that one myself,” he said. “Like the naughty bit of one of those nature programmes about lions on the savannah. Except, of course, I’m the one who does all the work and you’re the lazy git with the gorgeous hair.”

John bit along the ridge of Sherlock’s shoulder, gently and then not-so-gently.

Sherlock squirmed and mewled.

The weight of John was exquisite, and the pinch of his teeth was just the right amount of pain to pull Sherlock out of his own head and back into the moment.

The length of John’s slicked cock nudged between Sherlock’s buttocks as he began to rut, and with every roll of John’s hips, Sherlock and Sherlock’s own hardening cock were pressed tighter and tighter against the blanket-covered floor.

John turned his head back to look at them the side mirror. He moved his left arm, then moved it again.

“Don’t,” said Sherlock. “I’ll look around you.”

John nuzzled Sherlock’s hair. “Just want you to have a good view.”

That made Sherlock smile and wiggle his arse provocatively.

“I do,” said Sherlock. “And thank you, John.”

And whether he was thanking John for indulging his eccentric pleasure or for being in his life at all, it didn’t matter.

“It’s my pleasure. Just you wait and see.”

And with that, John kissed Sherlock’s jaw and left ear and the back of Sherlock’s head and blanketed Sherlock’s body with his own such that, despite Sherlock’s advantage of height, he seemed to disappear beneath John, save for a few dark curls, one gray eye, a pale swathe of chest, and a foot.

John’s licked. He snorted. He rut.

Sherlock, too, thought of the lions. “Mating,” he whispered.

“Yeah,” agreed John. “You’re mine, gorgeous.”

Sherlock shuddered.

Then John pushed himself up and back.

At the loss of warmth and attention, Sherlock whimpered, then felt lips, then hot breath, on his buttock.

“Don’t fret, sweetness. I liked that too much not to do it again, but let’s get you fucked first. That’s what this is about, isn’t it? And it’d be a shame to waste all that effort.”

Sherlock lifted his buttocks higher.

“That’s right.” John’s hands were on Sherlock, spreading his legs a little, spreading his cheeks a little. The noise of lube being squirted, then squirted again.

Cold shocked Sherlock.

“Sorry, love.”

Love.

Sherlock stared.

In the mirror, John’s eyes met his. “Okay?” It was the first quaver he’d heard in John’s voice since this whole sequence of events had been set in motion.

Sherlock blinked, then swallowed.

Yes, it was more than okay if John Watson loved him.

He nodded.

John smiled.

Then Sherlock felt something, John’s cockhead, he quickly realised, teasing the outer circle of his rim.

“Bit of tongue?”

Sherlock shook his head, then looked away. He sensed John’s frown. “I’m more than ready, John” he insisted, peevishly. “Ow!”

The burn was sharp, novel, and—even though Sherlock had just asked for it—unexpected.

“Sherlock.”

John’s tone brokered no argument. Sherlock looked up and let John read him.

“Christ, Sherlock.”

John’s cockhead was gone, and John’s body was covering Sherlock’s. There were kisses, so many kisses. Sherlock was dizzy again.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” breathed John. “Christ, Sherlock. I’d thought you’d done this before. That you liked it. Is it just the bloody mirrors?”

“You,” said Sherlock softly. “In the mirrors.”

John groaned. “You beautiful git. You know I love you. I love you, and I’m hopelessly, maddeningly, wretchedly _in_ love with you.”

Sherlock pinched his eyes shut and buried his face in the blanket. He didn’t want John to even suspect his tears. He turned his head and barked, “If you could dispense with the poetry, I’d very much like to be fucked!”

John exhaled noisily. “Fine. You’re going to get fucked, princess, but I’m not going to bloody your virgin hole for the fun of it.”

Sherlock turned his head.

John kissed and licked down his spine.

“John.” It was plea, apology, encouragement.

“Yeah,” said John, the tip of his tongue tickled in the cleft of Sherlock’s arse. Then he nuzzled; lips and nose buried against soft valley. “Me, too.”

Then John sighed and with two flat hands on Sherlock’s arse, righted himself. “Look and look good, Sherlock,” he urged.

Sherlock lifted his eyes, not to John’s face, but rather to the third mirror.

The third mirror was an oval monstrosity in a frame of pewter curls and whorls and plump, baby-faced angels sitting on clouds. Sherlock had polished it like a Victorian maid-of-all-work until the glass sparkled. Then he had fashioned a heavy stand for it.

And just as Sherlock had imagined, calculated, and, yes, confirmed through a bit of a trial run whilst John had been at work earlier in the day, the angels and swirls framed John’s arse nicely, so nicely, that Sherlock was almost distracted from the burn of John’s cockhead breeching his rim.

Almost.

John moved very slowly, applying even more lube to his shaft as it pushed inside Sherlock.

Sherlock bore down and, at some point, decided to entrust his ‘transport’ to John’s tender care and sending his mind, like Alice, through the looking glass.

“So tight, so sweet, so _fucking_ hot, Sherlock.”

John’s mutterings were faded, distant, but lovely. Lovelier still, however, were his gluteal muscles so tight, so sweet, and, yes, Sherlock had to admit, so _fucking_ hot, as they clenched, reining in John’s lust.

“I’m in you, love,” said John, finally.

As if Sherlock could be unaware of the fact!

But John’s gentle tone and the use of the endearment, which Sherlock now understood, with a thrill, would be commonplace in John’s speech pattern— _perhaps even in public, in front of the Yarders!_ —excused all statements of the tiresomely obvious. Of which there was another forthcoming.

“It feels so good, Sherlock.”

As John’s muscles relaxed so did Sherlock’s. And then it did feel good.

Well, better.

What did feel good without qualification were John’s hands running quickly, delicately, but oh, so soothingly along Sherlock’s lower back.

Sherlock switched his gaze to the side mirror.

John was sweating and biting his bottom lip and not looking in any mirrors at all. He was looking at Sherlock with a brow drawn in concentration and body quivering with self-restraint.

“John.” Sherlock’s soft, needy whine was accompanied by a lift and wriggle of Sherlock’s arse, and it provoked the desired moan from John. “Move, please,” Sherlock added. It was begging, pure and simple and effective, for John’s reply was breathy and full of relief.

“Yeah, love. Slow and easy at first, yeah?”

Sherlock hummed.

John drew his cock out slowly and re-sheathed it slowly and exhaled slowly. His hands were on Sherlock’s arse, steadying his movements while John’s head, Sherlock glanced in the front mirror, was bowed.

A single delicious drop of sweat, or spit, landed on Sherlock’s back. John’s tongue flicked, but for the first time since they’d met, Sherlock was not charmed by it.

John drew his cock out slowly for a second time and—

_WHAM!_

“Hey!” cried John as Sherlock sank back, impaling himself sharply. “You impatient git!”

John’s cock was gone, but the hand that had been caressing one of Sherlock’s hips smacked his bottom in a manner that would’ve made quite a few public schoolmasters proud.

_WHACK!_

That same hand made its way to Sherlock’s hair, yanking him back with such force that Sherlock fleetingly calculated the probability of his spine snapping.

Despite the pain, Sherlock’s eyes went to the side mirror. John’s eyes never left Sherlock’s face.

“Silly me, making love to you like a virgin bride, when you’re wanting to be fucked like a whore.”

“Simple mistake,” coughed Sherlock. “Could’ve happened to anyone.” He blinked. One corner of his mouth quivered.

Then he was thrown forward, all but one eye smashed into the blanket, but that one eye caught the sight that left Sherlock breathless:

John mounting Sherlock, sinking his thick, hard cock into Sherlock’s arsehole, for the express purpose of pounding Sherlock into the bloody floor.  

“Oh, oh, oh!” panted Sherlock as John’s rough pumping inched them forward, thrust by thrust, closer to the front mirror.

And oh, oh, oh, the mirrors!

In the front mirror, John’s wicked grin.

In the side mirror, his pumping hips.

And in the third mirror, that arse! Clenching not out of chivalrous restraint but rather primal lust.

Sherlock’s mind knitted the three images with what his other senses provided: the stretch of his body about John’s cock, the hard grip of John’s fingertips, their damp touch of sweat, the wet slap of skin-on-skin, the grate of their ragged breath, the stench of sex.

John grunted loudly.

Sherlock looked at him. “God, you’re gorgeous,” he said as John’s face contorted in pleasure.

Once spent, John quickly pulled out of Sherlock and sprang forward.

He bit. He licked. He covered Sherlock’s body with his own.

“Mad,” he mumbled. “Mad, mad, mad.” He slipped a hand beneath them to toy with Sherlock’s left nipple until it pebbled.

Sherlock studied John’s scar as his own body began to make its needs known.

“John.”

“I’ll take care of you, Sherlock.”

That statement from anyone else uttered at any point in Sherlock’s adult lifetime would’ve been met with outward hostility and inward disbelief.

But not John. And not now.

John kissed Sherlock’s neck and shoulders, whispered how brilliant Sherlock was and how beautiful and how much he enjoyed Sherlock’s body. His kisses were lovely and loving. His words like ‘extraordinary’ and ‘amazing’ and ‘fantastic’ were, too.

Sherlock could not think. Or summon the wherewithal to look in a mirror.

He was so lost that he cried out and fought in protest when John wrapped his arms around him and attempted to raise him from the floor.

John tightened his grip and shushed Sherlock, and after a bit of awkward arrangement, they were finally seated, slotted together, limbs tangled, bodies twined, before the front mirror.

“Look at you,” said John.

Sherlock frowned. What was beautiful about a pale body dotted with red marks from being pressed into a blanket?

But John’s fist stroking Sherlock’s cock and John’s fingertips teasing Sherlock’s nipple and John’s teeth nibbling at Sherlock’s neck, well, that was worth watching.

So Sherlock watched.

And shuddered as the man in the mirror came apart.

* * *

Sherlock dozed on the blanket.

The familiar warm, wet flannel was eventually replaced by a more curious sensation of pen on skin.

As the words formed on Sherlock’s body, they also formed in his mind, and he smiled.

**_!ɿoɿɿim yboold ƚɒʜƚ ǫniǫnɒʜ mɒ I woИ .ƨɘmloH ʞɔolɿɘʜƧ ,uoy ɘvol I_ **

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
